


Now My Charms Are All O'erthrown

by blasted_heath



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Anxiety, Arguing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fear of Death, Fluff and Angst, M/M, references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 11:38:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17466851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blasted_heath/pseuds/blasted_heath
Summary: A set of missing scenes for Episode 7: Horrible From Supper. Although tents provide very limited privacy and require certain precautions, James and Francis get the rare chance to spend time alone together in camp on King William Island. Incidentally, things have not been going quite well for James at this point, and Francis is rather distressed about it.---This was inspired by a question on Tumblr about why Francis is suddenly wearing mismatched gloves halfway through this episode, and it just got out of hand. (See what I did there.)As a fair warning: it does get pretty depressing at times, but I think our captains make up for it by being absolutely adorable as well.This story is absolutely canon-compliant. I watched the necessary scenes about 10 times to get the details right! But I do refer to some things that happened in the "Wings of a Gull" series (things that have no bearing on the TV show), so it can also be seen as existing in that universe.As to the note about references to violence: this does talk about the scene where Morfin gets hold of a rifle and fires in the general direction of James and Francis, but not in graphic terms.





	Now My Charms Are All O'erthrown

**Author's Note:**

> _Now my charms are all o'erthrown_  
>  _And what strength I have's mine own_  
>  _Which is most faint; now 'tis true_  
>  _I must here be confined by you..._  
>  _...But release me from my bands_  
>  _With the help of your good hands_  
>  _Gentle breath of yours my sails_  
>  _Must fill, or else my project fails,_  
>  _Which was to please. Now I want_  
>  _Spirits to enforce, art to enchant_  
>  _And my ending is despair,_  
>  _Unless I be relieved by prayer_  
>   
> 
> \--Prospero, _The Tempest_ , Act 5, lines 1-16

_“Jesus Christ, James, were you trying to get more holes shot in you?”_ The words, a growling whisper through gritted teeth, burst their way out of his mouth before he could fully secure the opening of the tent. The man to whom they were directed was sitting by the desk in the back corner, only a vague shadow in the darkness, but Francis was already certain of his presence before his eyes adjusted to confirm the fact.

By what little firelight filtered through the canvas, he went to the crate that was positioned against the left wall, and retrieved the lantern that sat there. He drew closed the curtain that separated the space into forward and aft rooms, lit the lantern and reached up to hang it from a hook on the forward part of the ridge pole, near the door. Through the curtain, it would only cast minimal light into the back room, but at least it would not throw shadows, and reveal to anyone who may be outside that he was not alone. 

_The last he had seen, James was standing behind him, with the heavy eyes of a man just roused from sleep, or prevented from sleeping altogether. His hair and jumper both horridly askew, pistol in one hand and a lantern in the other. Morfin’s stolen rifle leveled at both of them._ “Seaman Morfin.” _James’s low voice, sympathetic yet commanding, addressing the distressed, ill man._ “Lower your weapon. That’s an order.” _The sailor faltering, body shaking in fear and pain, and then the crack and flash as the rifle discharged. His own heart stopping, to the sound of the shot passing by his side, and the shattering of glass behind._

“I might ask you the same question,” James hissed from the other room. “You’re the one who stepped in front—”

There was a heavy snapping sound from the wool curtain as Francis thrust it out of the way. 

“Francis—?”

 _“James!”_ Francis dropped himself onto the cot opposite the desk. He leaned forward, hands hanging between his knees, struggling to keep his voice to a bare whisper. “ _I_ am not the one with existing wounds. This isn’t a time for your damned heroics. Not tonight!”

James scoffed, bitter. He moved to the edge of his chair and leaned forward himself, balancing his position with one of his elbows on his leg, so that the two men were mere inches from one another. He waved a hand in exasperation, narrowly missing Francis’s shoulder. “I have not come to this blasted place so I can just sit and—”

“I told you to stay here.” 

“I could hear what was going on, you know. You expect me to hear you shouting _hold your fire_ and not _do_ anything?”

“I _told_ you!” 

“Oh, so that was my captain’s order, was it?” 

“It bloody well should have been! If otherwise your tendency is to throw yourself into—“

“So I am to be told to prevent myself from being of any use here now? Is that it?” James was emphasizing his words with both hands now. “Am I to be ordered about like your goddamned second again? I should not intervene even if—” 

_“You—are—my second, James!”_

The younger man went rigid. “Damn you…” he said, slow and heavy. “ _Francis Crozier_ , God _damn_ you.” He slumped back in the chair, sinking into the bundled mass of the coat that hung there. 

Francis dropped his head into one of his hands. _Oh, Christ…oh, for the love of…_

“James…” he groaned, forgetting the level of his voice. “Oh hell,” he hissed, collapsing into the cot and running both hands over his face. “That isn’t…I…”

He rolled his head to the side, so he could look James in the eye. He flinched as he did. Even by the little light that spilled from the cracks to the other room, James’s eyes were glistening, glaring. “James, I didn’t mean…”

\---

_He had been laying awake, staring at the ceiling when James had come to him. He had harboured no hope of sleeping yet—although it was dark, it was still too early for that by most men’s accounts. But they had been in camp several days now, a welcome change from the persistent, long days on the ice, and for once there was nothing pressing to attend to. He knew by the particular sound of the footfall and knock on the frame near the door who it was—no need for words. He made a vague sound of acknowledgement before sitting up, only loud enough to be heard by someone who was listening for a reply._

_“Tie the door shut behind you,” he cautioned. “And leave the lantern up there.”_

_He could hear the trill of canvas being tied against itself, and the scrape of a lantern being hung up. The curtain had been mostly drawn shut around the back room already, for warmth, but he stood and drew it further closed once James stepped through._

_“James...” he said, a drawn out whisper, automatically seeking out the other man’s hand and raising it to his lips. “What is it?”_

_James lifted his other hand to join the first, thin fingers lightly brushing the rough side of Francis’s unshaven face as he did, and leaned in to kiss his hand in return. He appeared to be thinking of what to say, flicking his eyes over their hands to meet Francis’s gaze, but when he spoke it was simply, “Nothing in particular. I had nothing else to occupy my time, as you might expect.”_

_“You came because you were bored?” The joke from_ Terror _seemed an age old already, a different lifetime. “Not staying up odd hours drawing pictures of...rocks...by candlelight?”_

_James lowered one of his hands to Francis’s shoulder, and dragged it back along the line of his braces to clasp over his shoulder blade. “Not tonight,” he said, arranging a small, tired smile. “Although, now that you mention it, that might be quite diverting…” He smiled more broadly and dropped his head to lean against the other man’s warmth. “It has been...some time, of course.”_

_Francis wrapped his arms around James’s back, pulling him close. It had been some time indeed. It was almost always too exhausting, hauling the boats, to do anything other than collapse in one’s own bed and remain there all night. He understood; he would not begrudge James the rest he sorely needed, but…_

_“I did miss you.” He made to kiss James’s hair, but discovered only the wool of his Welsh wig. He laughed at his own haste that had caused him not to notice its presence. “Take this thing off,” he muttered into the wig, and pulled him down by their clasped hands to sit side-by-side on the bed. Hat and gloves deposited on a nearby trunk, he ran his hands behind the collar and down the front of James’s coat, fingers buried in the rabbit fur lining as James undid the belt and shrugged the coat off. Its absence a relief, he wound his hands around James’s back and up to his shoulders, pulling him forward, kissing him properly for the first time in days. James gave a muffled groan under the kiss, as he slumped against Francis’s body, but hissed in what sounded like pain as a hand ran over his chest. Francis pulled back abruptly. “What is it?”_

_“Oh. It’s...nothing. The sledge harness, I think. Bruised...it doesn’t matter.” James was frowning from what was likely more than the pain._

_“Ah.” He was lying. Francis saw where his hand had come to rest, and knew it was not a bruise that lay under it. No use speaking of it, though._

_Filling the silence that followed with the comfort of a routine long established in another place, James pulled off his jumper and neckcloth, so there would be nothing to hinder the warmth between them but the linen of their shirts. Francis shifted out of the way, toward the wall, so James could lay down on his right side and not aggravate the unmentioned bullet-wound scars, doubtlessly now darker and angrier than they had been when he had first seen them._

_Keeping his hand carefully low around James’s waist, he pulled the two of them together, so that their legs intertwined around the ankles. The man had been losing weight, too much, faster than most anyone else. It was apparent in the way his greatcoat hung around him during the day, and now Francis could feel the way his ribs were beginning to protrude, as his hand wandered gently over him. He struggled to fight back any reaction to the discovery, closing his eyes in a way that he hoped would look only like relaxation. No use in speaking of that, either._

_He brought his hand to lay against the back of James’s neck, fingers massaging his scalp, combing out the tangled mess the day had made of his hair. James’s own hand dragged over his chest, undoing the buttons of his shirt, running his fingers in short strokes over the exposed skin. Francis’s breath shortened at the touch, but apart from their hands both lay entirely still._

_Scant inches apart, he surveyed the lines, relaxed and yet downcast, of James’s face—remembering how many times they had lain like this, and all the other expressions his face had worn, when it was not weathered down by exhaustion. He thought of James smiling, laughing, teasing him about anything at all, as they lay in a room with wooden walls instead of canvas. James had been sick, even then, but he was happy, in that place, and he hid it well. Bringing his hand forward, he ran his thumb along the side of his face, beside his ear, fingers curled below his jawline. But he could not bear this any longer; his eyes stung, and James was staring at him with a searching look. “Oh, good Lord…” he began, and buried his hand again in the thickest part of James’s hair, leaning forward to kiss him in desperation. The mouth first, but moving to the curve of his jaw, his temples, forehead, eyelids—James’s lips followed and echoed his movements, not as strong, but no less earnest. When he pulled back he discovered that James was smiling now, although a bit breathlessly._

_“Ah,” he said, returning a grin and propping himself up on one elbow. “There it is.” He brushed the backs of his fingers from the corner of James’s lips to his ear before wrapping his hand over his shoulder. “Stay with me, then. Stay here tonight. I’ve seen you smile twice now, which is more already than the past three days combined. Can’t have you going back to being unhappy in your own tent, now.” His fingers moved absently around James’s shoulder blade._

_“God, we really have switched roles, haven’t we?” James mused, widening his eyes._

_“Hm,” was all Francis said in return, before leaning down to kiss him behind the ear. Probably not a wise idea in a tent, considering the reaction he knew he’d get, but…_

_On cue, an involuntary squeak erupted from under him, and suddenly, with more severity than should reasonably have been mustered by a person so exhausted, James thrust a hand against his chest and pushed him out of the way, onto his back. Now James was staring down at him, balancing himself on his good arm, expression caught between laughter and irritation. “You awful man…”_

_Francis was laughing. “I see that still works.”_

_James repositioned himself carefully so as to lay down comfortably on top of him. “Can’t leave a sick man well enough alone, can you?”_

_It had been meant as a joke, but Francis’s face fell. “James, why would you…? That has nothing to do with—“_

_But there was shouting outside. Further down the line of tents, but continuous, and then followed by the sound of boots crunching on gravel._

_“Fucking hell.” Francis grabbed James by the shoulders, pushing him off and unceremoniously depositing him, looking rather stunned, on his back on the bed._

_Francis was on his feet in a second, shoving on his boots and pulling on his coat, grabbing his gloves off the trunk by the bed. “Stay here,” he growled._

_“I will do no such thing.” James was wild-eyed, sitting on the edge of the bed, but seemed to have physically recovered from being tossed aside like one of the blankets. He had retrieved his jumper and was making to pull it over his head._

_“Yes. You will.” He nodded, and hurried out._

\---

“Is that how you see me then?” James asked, in a tone that made it clear he would be whispering the words, even if he were not constrained by the limited privacy of a tent. He was still slumped back in Francis’s desk chair, one foot planted firmly on the ground and the other leg stretched in front of him—a cruel farce of the way he used to gracefully arrange himself in relaxation when they were alone on the ships. He was staring at the wall somewhere over Francis’s right shoulder, making a clear effort not to blink. “Still your...subordinate officer?” 

Francis had sat up again and was staring at his feet. “No, James…” His own voice strained like the groan of sea ice. Without raising his head he glanced up from under his eyebrows, though he doubted that James was looking at him to see. “God, no. That was… I did not say anything like what I meant to.” 

James sniffed indignantly, trying to disguise the sound by also clearing his throat. It did not make his voice any less gravelly. “You said it, though. I had hoped I pleased you, after all this time. That we might at least be equals here, of all places.” His hand twitched on his leg. “I’ll never be like you of course. I’ll never be honoured by the Royal Society, and I’ll never have twelve years in the ice, and I’ll never have my damned name attached to anything—“

“James, please don’t—“

“But I thought _you_ at least—here—“ His voice, which he had attempted to make more forceful without being louder, stuck in his throat, and he coughed it away irritably. “That you would think enough of me to not doubt my decisions. At least not to talk down to me like a goddamn child.” 

“I don’t doubt your merit in the least, James. In fact—”

“Then what is it? What _is_ it, Francis? What have I _ever_ done that makes you think I should spend my time hidden away now?” He finally turned his head so their eyes would meet. His expression was pleading. “I have given all of myself up for this expedition. Everything I had. I have poured all my energy and attention and my judgment into the command of _Erebus_. And _Terror_ when I had to, and...whatever _this_ is.” He waved his hand in a wide arc, indicating the entire camp. 

“Might I…?” 

“No. If anything is ever said of me after this expedition I would hope it would be that I never shrank from anything. I feel I at least deserve the dignity of never having been forced to give up. But—” His voice had gone hoarse and he had to draw a halting breath to continue. “Does that make me a burden, now? Because I—” His voice finally broke and he had to hiss the last words in a single breath. “—couldn’t stop myself from being ill like you could?” 

“Jesus Christ, James!” Francis pushed himself off the bed, hoping the movement would be enough a shock to make the man stop talking. He’d probably have an entire narrative of Francis’s supposed thoughts composed if no one succeeded in interrupting him. “I’m not an eloquent man. You know that.” He would have paced around the room if he were anywhere else, but there was no space for that here. He stepped over to the desk, but realized this had the unfortunate effect that he was staring _down_ at James, and tried to lean against it as much as possible to diminish his height. “I can’t take back what I said but I can assure you I did not mean _anything_ like what you are saying. I do not suggest that you should hide yourself away and I most certainly don’t think you are inferior or a burden.” 

“Then what—”

“ _James!_ Hear me out. Please. Good God, _you could have been killed!_ His aim was directly on you. My heart nearly gave out when...do you not understand how close you came?” 

James’s eyebrows shot up. “I suspect I understand better than anyone, in fact.” 

Francis rolled his eyes. “Have you ever considered,” he began, tentatively, “that perhaps I act out of selfishness?” 

James laughed, then. “Oh _do_ you, Francis? I never would have noticed.” 

“Don’t sneer at me, James. I cannot lose you. Do you understand that? I cannot! I certainly do not think of you as my second; in fact I—” He paused and shook his head. “I do not wish for you to despise me, but I will command you as I see fit and face the consequences if you will just cease your damned proclivity for throwing yourself into danger!” 

“Good Christ, you’ve always been oblivious but this is asinine by even your standards. I’m half dead already! Do you not see this? I could go out there and give my life for you, and all that would mean is that I exit this world somewhat sooner than I already will. But you—I cannot have you leave me here, alone. I have commanded the expedition entire once before, and I have no desire to do so again. Least of all now. The men need you. I’ll need you here when—”

“Stop this, James.” Francis had one palm down on the desk and was leaning into it, looking down with a wild expression. “Did I not promise I would keep you alive, whatever it required?”

James was laughing again, with the bitter hysteria of a man for whom the line between amusement and despair was increasingly narrow. “Truly, Francis, your plan to save me is to keep me from being _shot_ again?” 

Francis’s jaw dropped. “Well it bloody well helps, doesn’t it?” 

James collected himself, pulling his legs up against the chair, bracing his elbows on his knees and leaning forward to run his fingertips through his hair. “No,” he sighed, “I’m not entirely sure it does. My dear man, you are tilting at windmills if you think _that_ is the real enemy here. I know what is coming for me and I suspect you know just as well.” 

“I do not…”

“Yes, you do. Here.” He extended his hand. “I’m tired of arguing in hushed tones in a damn tent. I forgive you. Freely.” 

Forced by James’s grip to step forward, Francis was now standing close enough that his leg was pressed against the side of James’s knee. He still found it awkward to be forced to look down to have a conversation, but James had sat himself up as straight as possible. He placed his other hand on the back of the chair and leaned downward to close some of the distance between them.

“Please,” James was saying. “I appreciate your optimism on the matter. In fact I have relied on it for quite some time. You are obstinate, and stubborn, and your insistence that we will every man make it out of here alive commands absolute confidence. The men need that from you. I find myself believing it, most of the time. You are, in fact, most persuasive.” He reached up and brushed something away from Francis’s eye. 

Francis blinked. “That bad, am I? Obstinate _and_ stubborn?” 

“Oh. Well. I could go on, of course. You know what I said about all the names that could describe you. Francis Obstinacy Crozier,” he smiled. “I like that one.” 

“You are ridiculous as ever, James.”

“I hope so. I’ll try as long as I can.” He ran his hand along the arm that Francis was using to lean against the chair, settling his grip below the elbow. “I am as determined to make it through this as you are. I would not leave you if I could help it, but I am afraid that nature might have other plans.” 

“It can be turned around in a matter of days. You know that.” 

James nodded. “I do. But I have to make peace with the fact that we may not come to that point. And it would help me to know that you would be prepared, as well. I’ll need you with me. And the men will need you to be present, after. You can’t go back to being a melancholy bastard once I’m no longer there to prevent it.” His eyes were shimmering but he smiled, slightly. 

Francis’s throat made a choked sound. He cast his gaze up to the ceiling and darted his eyes about in search of any sign or thought that would prevent the sound from turning into a sob. He had never cried in front of James, not truly, although he had come close. Somehow, in this desperate search for distraction, he had missed the fact that James had raised himself from the chair, but when he looked back he was staring straight into his eyes. Too startled to maintain composure, the sob welled forth, and he tilted forward, as James’s arms came to lay around his shoulders. He wrapped one arm fiercely around James’s back, brought the other hand up to tangle in his hair, and buried his face against his neck, kissing him twice. “James, I…” he whispered against his skin, before his voice caught again. He felt James lay his head against the top of his. 

“I know.” James pulled him closer. “Now—may I suggest we make for bed? I _am_ still here, you’ll notice, and it’s bloody freezing.”

\---

They lay facing each other, as before, arms draped across one another and the blankets pulled tight around them. Shivering more from exhaustion than anything now, curling into each other for warmth, they were obliged to tangle their knees together in an alternating pattern. It would be a difficult knot to break in the morning, but it kept them close, and it was warm, and would do for now. 

“You know…” Francis whispered, hand running along James’s hip, “you might have at least been a bit less obvious.” 

“What?”

“When you decided to come out tonight and honour us with your half-formed notions of heroics. You’ve never been so disheveled in your life.”

“Oh. Very likely, but I doubt I was much worse than anyone else. Mostly everyone had been… actually asleep, I presume.”

“James, ‘mostly everyone’ happens to remember how braces work, even when they’ve just awoken and dressed themselves in a hurry.” He squeezed James’s leg and traced his fingers around the leather straps of the braces that lay there, unused.

“Oh,” James snorted, glancing to the side, as if he’d see anything under the blankets. 

“I’d forgive the state of the rest of your clothing,” he said, now running his hand along James’s right arm, which lay between them, pushing back the too-long sleeve of his jumper so he could link their fingers together, “but that’s just ridiculous.” 

“Hm. Well, you know you aren’t one to talk, exactly. Being disheveled suits you, somehow, of course. I find it not altogether unappealing…but as far as being _obvious_ is concerned…” He tightened his grip on the hand between them.

“What are you talking about?” 

James pulled their joined hands out from under the covers and raised his eyebrows.

“What?”

“That happens to be my glove you are wearing, if you have not noticed yet.” 

Francis squinted.

“You took it off the trunk in your hurry to get out. Probably can’t tell in the dark, but you are wearing unmatched gloves and I find it rather charming.”

“Why are you only telling me this now?” 

James laughed. “I’m not entirely sure there was a proper time earlier. Didn’t quite…fit the conversation. Also, like I said, it’s quite endearing.”

“Good God,” Francis muttered, trying to pull his hand away. 

“It doesn’t matter” James went on, pulling the hand back. “I doubt anyone noticed, among everything else. And anyway, you can’t have yours back yet. It’s in my tent now.”

“ _What?_ ” Francis snapped. “ _How?_ ”

More laughter. “I didn’t notice at first either! I took the ones that were left here. That pistol I was carrying wasn’t yours, if you hadn’t thought about that. I had to go back to my quarters, and I only noticed when I got there. So I left them. You won’t have it until tomorrow at least.”

“ _James!_ I may be losing all sense of propriety out here but someone will notice if we both have equally unmatched gloves on.”

“Nonsense. I have others, of course. And as for you, it’s perfectly in character for you to be so absent-minded. No one will notice. I may drag this out for longer, in fact...the notion does rather improve my spirits.” 

“James!” Francis hissed, again, and pushed his hand against the center of his chest. “That isn’t fair.”

James grinned. 

“Oh, good Christ. The things I’ll do for your happiness…”

**Author's Note:**

> Things to note from Episode 7: 
> 
> -When Francis shows up to the Morfin debacle, he is wearing one blue glove and one grey glove. It does seem likely that there is an earlier explanation for this: he loses one of his grey ones in episode 5, when he is on deck doing something involving weapons (loading the canons, maybe? It's off screen) and takes it off, and it is never seen again. At the end of that episode, during his intervention scene, he is only wearing one. But why does he wear mismatched gloves in episode 7, instead of switching to a new pair? All officers seem to have a blue pair, and if Francis has one, why not the other? We are possibly supposed to infer that he keeps the grey one as a reminder of what happened that night, but we cannot be sure he didn't get the missing glove back at some point. 
> 
> -James in fact does show up to the same scene wearing his standard knit jumper, which he has clearly just thrown on, judging by the fact he usually has the extra-long sleeves turned up at the cuffs, but does not in this case. He has truly forgotten to use the suspenders/braces attached to his trousers-they are hanging around his legs. Based on a later scene, he usually wears them over his shirt but under the jumper, but other people wear them over both layers. So basically he had two chances to remember to employ them while getting re-dressed, but did not. What a dork :) 
> 
> -The next morning, Francis says he could not sleep. He uses this as an excuse for why he is shaving, instead of having Jopson do it for him, but that makes no sense because by the time he gets around to shaving there are plenty of people awake. So clearly not calling Jopson has nothing to do with not wanting to bother him, and his timing for shaving has nothing to do with being unable to sleep. We call B.S., Crozier. 
> 
> -At the officers' meeting where Jopson is promoted, Francis and James basically can't take their eyes off each other and it looks a heck of a lot like their legs "keep getting in the way of each other" under the table. Based on the way James his forced to move his position every time Francis does. This may not be the case, OR the issue is just that the table is cramped and two 6-foot-tall dudes with long legs presents a problem... BUT Lieutenant Little absolutely does put his hand on Irving's knee at one point, when they're discussing who will take a hunting party in which direction, so this show is not beneath Victorian handholding and such under the table. 
> 
> So there you go! All the canon-specific justification for why this story COULD fit between the scenes. *bows* I hope you enjoy my dedication to a theme :)


End file.
